Waking
by muffinanarchy
Summary: He wasn't the Soldier anymore. He was just James, or at least he thought he was. He was just a man without meaning, a relic that should have been left where it had crashed down to. They should have never found him. They should have never created the monster that he had been for so long.


The panic had set in before his eyes had opened. He went to reach under his head, only to be met with thick straps holding him down. He struggled against them, straining his body as much as he could. His eyes flew open wildly, trying to focus. 

White. 

Everything was white. They darted around the room several times, looking for the quickest possible exits. He went to clench his hands into fists and his breath hitched in his throat when he realised that only the human hand was responding. He turned his head to his shoulder, seeing emptiness where his bionic arm should have been. The open space made him uncomfortable, only forcing him to fight against his bonds more. He grunted, trying to tear his arm free of them. 

"Don't." 

The voice was quiet, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on edge. He didn't relax, but he didn't struggle as much against the bonds. The owner of the voice stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him. He walked over to the chair next to the bed and sat, and he couldn't bring himself to look at the man that had joined him. 

He could feel the eyes scanning over him and locking on where his arm should have been. James. That was his name, he remembered. His name was James. The man in front of him, he had never really called him James. He had always called him by a nickname - What was it again? He couldn't recall. 

He –James, he kept reminding himself. He could feel pieces coming back, fixing themselves together. He could hear screaming in his head; see the blood staining the metal fingers that had been taken away from him. He could feel the breath being squeezed out of the man's throat, and he could taste the regret that was sinking into every fibre of who he was. 

Except he wasn't sure who he was anymore. Without his arm, without the life that they had placed inside his head, who was he? He couldn't be the man he was before, because he didn't remember how to be. His memories might be coming back, but he couldn't be that person again. Not after everything he had done. The kills would always stay with him. He would remember each and every one of them. He would remember how cold the Soldier was while he followed his orders. He had always been good at that, being cold, being merciless. 

He wasn't the Soldier anymore. He was just James, or at least he thought he was. He was just a man without meaning, a relic that should have been left where it had crashed down to. They should have never found him. They should have never created the monster that he had been for so long. 

His struggling had long since stopped when he finally allowed himself to glance at the man sitting in the uncomfortable looking plastic chair next to the bed. His eyebrows were knitted together but he wasn't looking toward his face. He was looking toward where the metal should have met flesh, connecting the two together. James watches him, wary of what might happen, but all the man across from him does is sigh inwardly, rubbing his hand across his forehead. Somewhere inside his mind, his voice is telling him that the man thinks it's his fault that he lost it. That it's his fault that the Russians took him in and moulded him to be the perfect killing machine. He looked broken, lost in a sea of words that he will never say to James. Those eyes, those blue eyes belonging to a man he had known long before, were now looking for his. 

He wasn't just _a_ man though, was he? This man was Captain America. He was everything that James had always seen him as. It had just taken the world longer to catch up with him, that was all. He wondered if he had been made into what he had always meant to be too. Was he always supposed to be a master assassin, killing who he was told and not thinking twice about it? Pain stretched across his temples at the thought, seeing flashes of the Soldier's murders. He tried again to lift his hand, only to be met with the tug of the restraints holding him down. He groaned, tearing his eyes away from the ones that were boring into his own. 

Eyes. 

James saw it in his mind. There were two young boys walking down the street, one smaller and thinner than the other. The bigger of the two had his arm slung around the shoulders of the other boy, and both were laughing. James could hear the laughter – the larger one, the brunette, had a boisterous laugh, while the blond had more of a reserved sound leaving his mouth. The two of them were barely older than twelve, James thought. He couldn't make out what they were saying, not until the image started to fade, tucking itself away into a deep corner of his mind. It happened just after it faded completely, with James seeing the blond nudge his elbow against the other's ribcage. The very last words, the ones that triggered him, came from the brunette. 

This time when he met the blue eyes, he searched them. Searched them for anything that he could take from them, soaking it all in. This man had been his best friend, once over. This man possibly still thought of James as his best friend, even after everything. James shook his head faintly, listening to the last words from the memory echo inside his head. The other man looked like he was giving up. He looked broken, torn apart by the actions of the Soldier. The eyes tore away from his own and James was left to stare at the top of his head; at the blond hair that had was still cropped short. James wasn't sure what he could do, not until he had heard those last words. James knew what he had to do then, just to show the Captain that he wasn't what he had been made to be. He was starting to remember, and he wanted the Captain to know about that. 

James took one more look at the top of his head before he opened his mouth. The sounds felt foreign in his mouth, having not spoken it in so long. His voice was hoarse and scratched, making him wonder how long he had been sleeping. Finally, it was his tongue that felt heavy. It was almost wrong, speaking in a forgotten language. Still, he proceeded to say the words, now almost desperate for the Captain believe that he was here. 

"Hey, punk."


End file.
